


Cold Water

by menofsweaters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menofsweaters/pseuds/menofsweaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't remember falling in love with Dean. It's just something that's always been there. </p>
<p>Including lyrics from "Cold Water" by Damien Rice because that's how I roll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow, my first actual attempt at Wincest. Written mostly at the encouragement of a friend.

Sometimes, when Sam was lying awake in that rare moment of peace before sleep closed around his mind, he wondered how it all started. It was easy to let his thoughts wander in that direction as he listened to the soft, deep sounds of Dean sleeping the bed across from him. It was more difficult to have such inwardly-focused thoughts when Dad was there and they had to share a bed. They were both too old for that kind of thing, really, but it couldn’t be helped. When they slept in the same bed, Dean’s breath would tickle warm and damp on the back of his neck or the top of his head, and Sam would forget momentarily what it was that he was supposed to be so worried about. 

But Dean was in the other bed tonight, making weird grumbling noises in between breaths, and it was easier for Sam to wallow in all of the emotions he now associated with his brother -- affection, irritation, guilt, shame, fear, frustration, anger -- but most of all, most horribly of all, was a terrible, aching need. It was a weakness that ripped him up inside more than anything with fangs and claws that John was hunting that week, even though he didn’t always understand exactly what it was that he wanted. 

Confusion. That was a good emotion to add to the list. He flopped his head to the side and watched Dean half-smile in some dream, just as his own eyes started drooping.

He tried to make it into a timeline, a list, something logical and traceable. Unfortunately, it didn’t often work out like that. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with Dean -- was just something that was always there, an ever-present amalgamation of of warmth and dread that colored all of his memories and made the future hazy and difficult to imagine. He couldn’t decide if this lack of beginning was a good thing or a bad thing. It just was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cold, cold water surrounds me now  
>  And all I've got is your hand_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take full responsibility for the pure, unadulterated sap that is the inclusion of these lyrics.

Sam could, however, remember the first time that he wanted to kiss him. That one was easy. It stood out brightly in his memory -- mocking but tender. They didn’t usually have much time to make friends while on the road, but kids always seemed to flock to Dean somehow. Sam guessed it was some kind of cool factor that he lacked. They were at the pool that day, a rare respite from the chaotic mess they called life. It was hot and crowded, but Dean had been teaching him how to jump off the diving board and Sam was eager to show off. 

He bypassed the low board (it was just for little kids, he told himself) and slowly walked towards the high dive, concrete uncomfortably warm under his feet. He waited for two older kids to splash into the fluorescent blue water with loud whoops, then began to scale the rungs up to the diving board. The rough coating on the bars easily kept him from slipping, but he couldn’t deny some trepidation when he emerged at the top, board wobbling slightly under his feet. He walked carefully to the edge of the platform until he could grip the slick edge with his toes. He surveyed the crowded pool, which seemed impossibly far below him, until he picked out his brother. Dean was grinning. Even this far up, Sam could tell. A boy on the ground below him yelled at Sam to hurry up. He took a deep, shuddering breath, bent his knees, then launched himself into the air. 

The descent didn’t take nearly as long as he thought it would and he hit the surface of the water with a painful slap and a loud yelp, much quicker than he imagined. He sunk into the water, allowing himself to drift down to the bottom of the pool. As soon as his toes brushed the concrete, he propelled himself back up to the surface. He burst up with a gasp, then paddled breathlessly towards the edge of the pool. He pulled himself out of the water -- all gangly limbs and quivering excitement -- and jumped upright. He nearly slipped on the wet, sun-warmed tiles, but Dean was there. He caught Sam’s elbows and held him steady. Sam could hear Dean’s friends laughing at him, but he didn’t care because Dean wasn’t laughing. He was grinning so wide that his freckles were crowded at the edges of his cheeks and the humor in expression was full of pride, not ridicule.

“I did it, Dean!” Sam exclaimed eagerly. He felt a warmth rippling throughout his body that had nothing to do with the sun beating down on his back.

“Yeah, you did,” Dean agreed, still gripping his arms. “Maybe next time try to get the landing a little better. That looked like it hurt.”

“Yeah,” Sam laughed, “next time.” That was when he felt it -- an intense pull towards his brother. But this time, not a formless desire. Not an abstract attraction or hunger. He could see it in his mind. He only needed to step forward, press their skin together, and then their lips would fit together, too. Perfectly. He didn’t care that they were in the middle of a public pool. He didn’t care about much of anything except for Dean’s flush, slightly chapped mouth in from of him. 

But Dean let go. He dropped his hands, clapped Sam on the shoulder, and turned back to his friends. The moment passed and Sam was left feeling mortified, ashamed and frightened of what he’d very nearly done. Sam avoided pools after that. He had too much to lose. 

\---------------

Sam tried to put the incident out of his mind. He knew better than to try to explain it away to himself -- he knew very well that what he felt for Dean wasn’t right, it was just a matter of successfully ignoring it. So he didn’t go to the pool. He didn’t try to hang out with Dean and his friends. Dean seemed to be distancing himself from them, anyway, which was probably for the best, as neither of them knew how long they would stay here. 

Instead, Sam threw himself into his books -- books for school, books for research, books for fun if he could manage it. Dean noticed, he was sure, but said nothing. Even John noticed, and loudly complained that Sam spent too much time with his head in books, books that were too advanced for him anyway. Sam didn’t see how that mattered. He’d always been ahead of other kids his age in that respect. He didn’t care. He liked books, he liked learning new things. If he didn’t understand something he read, it was easy enough to look it up somewhere, either in the dictionary or thesaurus, or online if they (by some miracle) had internet access or a library within walking distance. 

John still made a fuss, but Dean tried his best to get him to lay off, which was a pleasant surprise. They ended up compromising, with John agreeing to leave Sam alone about his studies if he invested more time in training. He gave Sam a list of tasks: shooting practice, hand-to-hand, knife skills, anything physical. Sam dealt with it, a kind of grudging acceptance of his place, and tried not to watch Dean too closely, tried not to lean into his touch when he corrected a stance or cuffed him playfully. It was nothing.

“What’s up with you?” Dean asked, honest concern in his voice as he positioned Sam’s arm to block an imagined attack.

“Nothing,” Sam answered. Dean’s lips pursed unhappily, but he didn’t press the subject. Sam begged out of training early and -- shockingly -- Dean let him go. It was for the best. He didn’t need to be looking at Dean’s lips that closely.

\---------------

Sam knew that he was fucked up -- probably lack of stability or past trauma, if what he read on child psychology was any indication -- but he didn’t realize exactly how fucked up until Dean’s face started drifting into his mind when he touched himself in the shower. The intensity of the need and the force of the pleasure was jarring, almost frightening. Masturbation was normal for a boy his age, he knew, and felt no guilt over it. But what he was thinking about was the definition of not normal. Then again, when had he ever been normal?

After that, he forced his mind into careful blankness whenever his hands started wandering. The artificial nothingness brought him half-satisfied release at best, and a painful, breathless hunger at worst.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lord, can you hear me now?  
>  Lord, can you hear me now?_

Sam noticed things more than other people. When John deemed it necessary or unavoidable to take him on a hunt, he noticed the tiny bent branches, the otherwise indecipherable sigils, the sharp, small clues that indicated what needed to be done. He noticed people at school, too. Both students and teachers. He saw the minute things they did when they thought no one was watching and used that to measure their worth. He tried to notice the beauty in everyday occurrences, but sometimes it was difficult.

Most of all, though, he noticed Dean. He noticed how tall he’d gotten, though he secretly thought that he wouldn’t be the tallest forever. He noted the definition in the muscles of his back when he changed clothes, the little indentation above his clavicle, the way his thumb smoothed over the worn edge of Dad’s old leather jacket. He noticed the dusting of dark stubble on his cheeks and upper lip that indicated he needed a shave, but maybe didn’t know it yet. He noticed the funny little cowlick on the back of his head when he’d gone too long without a haircut. He noticed the way his eyelashes laid against his cheeks and the dark freckle on the inside of of his ear. The way his eyes subtly darkened when he thought they were in danger. The faint scars. He noticed them all and loved them more each day. 

\---------------

Sam’s head was shoved under the water, lungs greedily burning through his remaining oxygen, but that was okay. That was how he wanted it. Dean made fun of him for occasionally taking baths instead of showering, but he found them peaceful. If he dunked his head under the water and focused on the little bubbles escaping his lips, his heartbeat thudding loud and steady in his ears, the hot water streaming from the tap -- it felt like he could quiet his mind for once. It felt cleansing, for lack of a better word.

So he held his head under the water for as long as he could, eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched at his sides, willing blankness into his head, just until he couldn’t stand it any longer and emerged from the water gasping. He smoothed dripping hair away from his face and clasped his hands at the back of his neck for a moment before leaning forward to shut off the faucet. That was when he saw him.

Dean was standing in the small bathroom, shoulders flush against the closed door, with one hand grasping the doorknob as though he was ready to bolt. But he didn’t. Sam stared at him, waiting for him to say something about needing to piss, or complain at him for for taking too long. But he didn’t. Instead, he just stood there, an odd, inconceivable expression on his face. Sam’s cheeks began to flush and Dean’s lips quirked upward ever so slightly. Sam’s confusion quickly turned to embarrassment, then anger when it finally hit him. Dean was laughing at him.

Sam was suddenly hyper-aware of of his body: awkward, gangly pre-teen limbs, still soft in the belly and around his face from baby fat, skin pallid and thin from too much time spent inside, engrossed in some dusty tome. And then there was Dean -- Dean, who was perfect, and beautiful, and laughing at him.

“Get out!” he screamed, surprising himself with the volume. On impulse, he snatched up the bar of cheap motel soap and flung it at his brother. It missed Dean by a mile and struck the mirror wetly instead, but it got the point across. Dean’s face turned drawn and troubled in an instant and he disappeared from the bathroom quicker than Sam thought possible, slamming the behind him.

\---------------

A few things happened at once. Sam pulled himself out of the tub and threw his clothes on, still dripping lukewarm bathwater on the floor. He heard the door to the room open and the familiar footsteps of his father as John called, “Sam?” in a questioning tone. Sam flung the bathroom door open and stormed into the room, where Dean was standing, clearly on-edge, and his father was looking concerned.

“I thought I heard something,” John said. “Everything okay in here?” He was wiping his hands on a greasy rag, clearly tinkering with the Impala. Sam opened his mouth to say something -- that Dean was being a perv, or that he deserved some fucking privacy, maybe both, he wasn’t sure -- when he caught sight of Dean’s face. Dean was the kind of person who never showed fear. Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think that this meant he never felt it, but it never showed on his face. Sam almost didn’t recognize the emotions playing madly across his brother’s face: shame, confusion, guilt, frustration, but most of all, fear. Dean looked terrified, and Sam for the life of him couldn’t figure out why. Those emotions stabbed at him with their familiarity, and he heard himself speak before he’d thought of what to say.

“Everything’s fine.” Sam looked to Dean to corroborate the story, but he was frozen. “We’re fine.” John squinted at him in disbelief, a frown creasing his brow. “Really,” Sam insisted. After a pause, he huffed and added, “I was just, uh, I was in the bathroom and I, um, saw a bug.”

“A bug.” John looked unconvinced.

“A big bug. Like, really big. I think it was mutated or something.” At that, his father’s expression softened a bit and he almost rolled his eyes.

“My son,” he grumbled, “afraid of bugs.” He ruffled Sam’s damp hair quizzically, like he wasn’t sure what to do with it. He never really knew what to do with Sam, in all honesty. He glanced around and surveyed the room. “Well, don’t worry too much, Sam. We’ll be outta this roach motel soon. The coven I’m tracking is on the move.” He narrowed his eyes. “In fact, you boys better pack up. I want to move out before nightfall.” John shoved the rag back in his pocket and walked back out the front door, mind occupied again with the hunt, the endless chase.

Alone again in the room with Dean, Sam felt his irritation return. He whipped around to glare at his brother, whose expression had changed from the maelstrom of emotions he’d seen before to simple anger -- more familiar and more manageable. He wanted to shout at him again, but Dean wasn’t even looking at him. Instead he was glaring ruefully at the mirror, as though it contained some unseen foe. Sam couldn’t help himself.

“Dean?” he asked quietly. That seemed to jolt his brother out of his reverie, and Dean spun around and shoved past him, grabbing spare clothes and and scattered possessions to shove in a suitcase.

“Dean?” Sam repeated, more urgently. He didn’t understand what was going on. He was the one that should be pissed off, not Dean. It didn’t make any sense.

“You heard Dad,” Dean barked. “Pack up your crap.” Sam shut his open mouth with a click of his jaw and started to pack, allowing the anger and confusion to smolder inside of him until he didn’t know what to do with it any more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lord, can you hear me now?  
>  Or am I lost?_

It wasn’t until days later -- new town, new name, and (Sam dared to hope, he always hoped) new school -- that Dean sat down next to him and, without warning, said what he’d been waiting to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam scowled at him over his shoulder. “Sorry for what?” he asked sharply, as though there were plenty of things for Dean to be sorry about. And, to be fair, there probably were.

“I’m sorry for walking in on you in the fucking bathub, okay? Jesus.”

Sam bit his lip, holding back whatever snippy comment he might have otherwise made, as he felt his irritation thawing. Dean seemed stiff and uncomfortable; he wouldn’t look at him.

“Why do you do that, anyway?” Dean asked, unable to keep an edge of sharp frustration out of his voice.

“Huh?”

“You do that thing where you hold your head underwater. It looks like you’re trying to fucking drown yourself.” Dean finally levelled his eyes on Sam, giving him the the full force of his protective-big-brother stare.

“Oh, uh, I... I dunno.” Sam wriggled nervously. “It just helps me think, I guess.” Dean didn’t seem to approve of this answer, from the way his eyes narrowed and his frown deepened at the edges. He seemed to be assessing Sam. He must have found something satisfying in his brother’s expression, though, because the intensity of the stare finally faded and he looked away, muttering.

“What the hell do you have to be thinking so hard about, anyway?” Sam scowled and folded his arms across his chest. After a moment, Dean spoke again, softly. “You would... you would tell me if something was going on with you, right? I’m not Dad, you know.” Sam’s blood ran cold, but he forced himself not to tense up, and even to smile a bit.

“Yeah, sure,” he answered quietly. It wasn’t clear whether or not Dean was appeased by this answer, but he stood up all the same and ruffled Sam’s hair lightly. Sam glared and tried to smooth it back down. It was a ritual.

“Going out,” Dean announced simply. “See you around, Sammy.”

\---------------

There was a slow, inconspicuous change in Dean after that, though it was difficult to tell if it was just that they were growing up or something else entirely. He came home late, smelling like flowery perfume or cheap whiskey, sometimes both. He flirted shamelessly with every girl at school. He flipped up the collar of the worn leather jacket he favored because he thought it looked cool. John noticed these things, and though he always admonished him for lateness or the scent of alcohol, he seemed secretly pleased. 

Sam noticed and he wanted to die. It wasn’t that he thought anything would ever come of the desires he kept buried in the back of his mind. In fact, he’d always wondered if Dean getting a girlfriend might help in some way -- help force him to eradicate the guilty thoughts that buzzed around in his head. Instead, when he accidentally caught Dean necking with a senior in the Impala on his way home from school, his throat closed up, his eyes started to burn, and his heart threatened to eject itself from his body.

He ran all the way home, focusing on the feeling of breathlessness and the ache in his legs rather than Dean. When he got home, he crawled into bed, covered in a cold sweat, gulping down warm, stale air -- but he was drowning.

\---------------

Sam didn’t know how being in love with his brother could get any worse, but somehow it did. His thoughts shifted from vague, shapeless wants to vivid dreams of Dean’s hands on his body, Dean’s mouth on his, Dean’s voice murmuring in his ear. He would wake with a start, face flushed and body pulsing, full of so much shame that he nearly retched over the side of the bed. 

If Dean ever noticed, he didn’t show it. Burying himself in studying helped, even training with Dad sometimes helped (he asked John instead of his brother, because he couldn’t handle the closeness, the intensity of skin and sweat and stares), but what helped most of all was dreaming of escape. All of the teachers said it was time to start thinking about the future. Sam had begun to wonder what life held in store for him -- he wasn’t sure what he wanted, other than that he didn’t want to be a hunter.

In a few years, he would finish middle school, then high school if he could stay ahead, and then who knew? Maybe he could even go to college one day. Maybe John would let that happen for him. But for now, there was no escape. There was only days of wanting Dean, and nights of wanting Dean, and all of the time in-between.

\---------------

They were living in a ramshackle rent-house with a month to month lease outside of Bossier City when Sam first saw Dean drunk. Sam had his nose buried in “A Raisin in the Sun” when Dean shoved the door open much too loudly and greeted him with a wide, unashamed grin. He elbowed Sam in the side and collapsed down on the threadbare couch.

“Sammy,” he drawled. Sam rolled his eyes.

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ll call you whatever the hell I want,” Dean replied, but there was no menace in his voice. 

Sam was far from sheltered. He knew what beer smelled like, and Dean reeked of it. He’d smelled alcohol on him before, but never this strongly. He wasn’t falling down or shouting drunk, like Dad sometimes was. He was just pink-faced and goofy drunk, which was an odd thing for Dean. The smell of smoke and alcohol made Sam wrinkle his nose, but underneath that was still the want. It never left him these days. It lived in his blood.

“You’re drunk,” Sam announced, attempting to shift away from his brother.

“I had a few beers,” Dean replied, leaning down and breathing stale beer-scent on his face. Sam guessed that it was more than a few. He poked Sam in the shoulder. “You gonna tell Dad?”

“No,” Sam answered quickly, moving away again. “Not that he’d care.” Dean noticed Sam’s attempt at escape and rose an eyebrow.

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

Dean shrugged and seemed to let it go. He dug into one of the deep inner pockets of his coat and pulled out a bottle. He smudged the condensation with his thumb, then easily twisted the cap off with a soft hiss. Sam drank in the movements. He didn’t recognize the label -- something cheap. Dean took a long swing.

“Hey, lemme try.” Sam reached out.

“What? No way.” Dean pulled away, keeping the bottle close to his lips.

“Why not?” Sam whined. He really hated that. He didn’t mean to whine. Dean studied his face, lips still closed around the bottle, and Sam tried not to think about that took much.

“Because, you’re just a kid.” 

“What?” Sam sputtered. He’d expected a lot of things: No, Dad will be pissed. No, get your own. But not this. “A _kid_?” he repeated incredulously. “Dean, when have we ever been kids?” Dean flushed slightly and Sam knew he was right, but his brother kept his tight grip on the bottle.

“Since I fucking say so,” Dean growled. He downed the rest of the beer in one long gulp, Sam watching his throat move helplessly, then tossed it on the coffee table. The bottle wobbled in small circles on the table and Sam forced himself to watch it, instead of watching Dean. The bottle stilled.

“Fuck you,” Sam said softly. He grabbed the play and shoved it into his backpack before storming out of the room. When he clicked off the lights in the bedroom that he and Dean were supposed to share, hours later, he was still alone. He could see Dean sitting motionless on the couch through the crack in the door, staring straight ahead, eyes boring into the chipped mirror above the mantle like it could give him answers.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Love one's daughter  
>  Allow me that_

Contrary to what Dean seemed to think, Sam was not, in fact, a complete social outcast. It was true that Dean gathered hangers-on and admirers so easily that it was almost supernatural, but if they stayed in one place long enough, Sam managed to make a friend or two. It was easy enough to strike up conversations about assignments, and he was in enough advanced classes to at least make the acquaintance of a few older kids. They usually thought he was a nerd, but they tolerated his presence. That was how he found out about the party.

He wasn’t invited, per se, but he knew where and when it was, and guessed that it would be chaotic enough that no one would mind his presence. And he knew that it was the kind of place Dean was bound to show up. So Sam resolved to show up, too. He wasn’t a kid -- Dean should know that. It was a stupid reason to go, but he did it anyway. 

Sam had never been to a party before. It was hot, and crowded, and loud. Almost everyone was several years older than him, but no one seemed to care. They were all too busy grinding to the pop music pounding through the walls or downing clandestine vodka shots and cheap beer. At some point, someone shoved a plastic cup of lukewarm beer in his hand. He wasn’t sure if it was a gesture of goodwill or an effort to get him out of the kitchen, but he forced himself to drink it all the same. It was flat and bitter, but not as terrible as he’d thought it would be. Nothing to make a habit out of, but at least he could say he drank it.

It was hard to keep track of time. Everything was too loud and too close, and he still hadn’t spotted his brother. The party was smothering and boring to him, but it seemed to be slowly -- very slowly -- winding down. He was wandering through the house, scooting carefully past couples making out in the darkened hallway, when he found Dean. He turned the corner to escape a particularly limber couple and found himself facing a half-closed door. He wasn’t sure what made him hold out his hand to shove the door open -- curiosity? A need to escape? Maybe it was simple dumb luck. But what he saw there turned his blood to turpentine.

It was someone’s bedroom. There was a large band poster and a cluttered night stand. There was also a girl on the bed, clothed, but just barely. Dean was bent over her, mouth latched onto her neck as she made a soft gasping sound. Her delicate fingers were twined in his brother’s hair and her legs were wrapped around his waist, skirt rucked up in bunches to show slim hips and blue lace underwear. Sam had never seen that much of a girl in person. Dean’s fingertips were dancing along the girl’s sides, making her giggle, before they flitted under the hem of the lace.

Sam didn’t remember doing it, but he heard the plastic cup crumple loudly in his hands. Both of the teenagers’ heads whipped around to look at him in surprise. The girl yelped and sat up, furiously yanking her skirt down. Dean was shocked and open-mouthed, lips red and wet in the dim light. Sam heard someone laugh behind him, as though from a distance, and his body spun around and turned away from the scene. Somewhere in his mind, he heard the girl remark, “What the hell?” in a sharp, irritated tone, but he was already gone

\---------------

He didn’t remember getting there, but he found himself in the backyard, at the edge of the pool. The water was lit a clear, pale blue and some stray leaves floated on the surface. A chill had come into the air that made swimming less than ideal. Besides that, most of the guests were inside dancing or attempting to find someone to help them release their pent-up sexual frustration. He was mostly alone outside, with only a few people talking quietly in little groups, oblivious to Sam.

His heart was thudding in his ears so loudly that he worried it might burst. He couldn’t breathe. Bile threatened to well up in his throat. All he could see was Dean’s hands, his face, his wide green eyes. Sam sat down at the edge of the pool and removed his jacket, folding it carefully and place it beside him. Then he lowered himself into the deep water, pushing the air out of his lungs in a steady stream, allowing the cold to pull him under and chase away all of the maddening thoughts and desires crashing around inside of his brain. He felt his legs bump the concrete bottom of the pool and he didn’t move to escape. He liked it here. It was quiet, and cold, and quiet. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter this time, but more to come soon. We're getting close to the end now, so be prepared.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And I can't let go of your hand  
>  Lord, can you hear me now?_

Sam’s head jerked backward and nearly smacked against the side of the pool when a strong hand gripped the back of his shirt and yanked him upwards. His head broke the surface and he gasped, inadvertently gulping down pool water. The chlorine was stinging his eyes and he could make out a small group gathered nearby, tittering with concern. A firm arm slipped under his shoulder and around his chest, hauling him bodily out of the pool. He slumped back against his savior and started coughing up water. 

Dean’s face swam hazily into view and Sam noted the emotions there: worry, confusion, anger. Mostly anger at this point. His face was pale, making his freckles stand out darkly. His arms, torso, and face were dripping water. It was seeping into the knees of his jeans. Once Sam stopped coughing, Dean grasped his shoulders painfully and yanked him to his feet.

“What the hell -- What the fuck were you doing, Sam?” he demanded, dragging his little brother through the muttering crowd.

“I... I don’t know,” Sam answered dumbly. It was the truth. His voice sounded strange and cracked in his ears. They were back inside the house and Dean was shoving him into one of the bathrooms. Water pooled on the floor in liquid patterns and Sam started to shiver. Dean shut the door behind them, using all of his self-control not to slam it so hard that the whole house would rattle.

“I thought you weren’t trying to drown yourself,” Dean snapped. He rummaged around in the cabinet a moment before pulling out two fluffy white towels. Sam wanted to protest, but the hard look on Dean’s face was enough to make him rethink it. 

“I wasn’t,” he said finally, softly. 

“Could’ve fooled me.” Dean was roughly toweling his hair; the fabric was starched and scratchy against his cheeks. “What the hell has gotten into you?” he asked quietly, pulling the towel away. “And don’t say it’s nothing. I’m tired of hearing that.” Sam didn’t know what to say, so he just remained silent. He stared stubbornly at the floor, watching water droplets plop onto the pale tiles.

“Geez, you could have at least stripped,” Dean grumbled. He tugged on Sam’s sopping clothing. “Shirt,” he commanded. Sam flushed, but peeled his shirt off and handed it to Dean, trying to hide his body from view as much as possible. Dean made an exasperated sound and tossed the now-damp towel at him. Sam started to towel off his chest and arms, painfully aware of every imperfection. He heard the sound of Dean wringing out his shirt in the bathtub. 

“Pants,” Dean said next, holding out a waiting hand. Sam shook his head numbly. Dean sighed. “Fine, have it your way, princess. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before.” Sam didn’t even have the wherewithal to glare at him. He just kept rubbing the towel over his chilled skin and blotting ineffectively at his soaked jeans, which were now heavy and uncomfortable on his hips.

“I’m sorry,” he said, after a while. “I don’t know what I was doing.”

“No shit.” Dean snatched the towel out of Sam’s hands and renewed his focus on drying Sam’s hair. “I know you’ve been drinking,” he continued, “but you’re not drunk. Don’t even try to pretend.”

Sam had, in fact, opened his mouth to lie -- to explain it away as a drunken accident. But now he couldn’t. Dean had stopped rubbing so vigorously on his scalp and let the towel slip down Sam’s cheeks, trail across his shoulders and the top of his chest. Sam trembled. He felt entirely too close. The world felt suffocating again, but it was only him and Dean this time. All he could see were Dean’s eyes, darkening almost imperceptibly, Dean’s hands gliding down his sides, Dean’s mouth on his neck like the girl in the bedroom. But it was only a fantasy. Something must have shown on his face because Dean’s expression turned quizzical and he spoke softly, as though to a wounded animal.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.” Sam felt like he was choking. Dean’s face was so close to his -- bent over slightly, his brother was almost the same height as him. 

“You can.”

Sam didn’t know what he was doing, but he was doing it all the same. He’d never kissed anyone before, but he had a kind of clinical knowledge of how it worked. How it was supposed to work, in theory. He leaned his face up, resting his hands lightly on his brother’s arms, and pressed his lips against Dean’s still-open mouth. It was awkward and clumsy. The height difference meant that he’d mostly kissed his bottom lip and part of his chin. Dean’s mouth was cool and slightly damp; he tasted like chlorine and whiskey. It was quick, chaste, and terrible -- and Sam wanted to do it again, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Dean placed a solid hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Sammy,” he sighed. “You... you can’t do that. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You could show me,” Sam blurted out stupidly. Dean made a surprised laugh, but it sounded somehow sad, too. 

“That’s not what I meant,” he murmured. Despite his best intentions, despite the logical part of his brain that knew this would happen and was just happy not to receive disgust or a blow, Sam felt his chest tighten and his throat start to burn. He was not going to cry, dammit. That was the whole point. He wasn’t a baby. But one streak of warm wetness was already dribbling down his cheek, mingling with now-cold pool water.

“Hey, no, don’t do that.” Dean brushed the tear away with his thumb. “It’s gonna be okay, all right? I promise it’ll be okay. I promise.” He whispered this like a mantra as he pulled Sam into his arms for a tight hug. He kissed him gingerly on the forehead, barely a brush of lips at his temple, and leaned back to survey his brother.

“How did you get here?” he asked simply, no judgement in his voice, no revulsion or resentment in his features.

“I walked.”

“Figures. I’ll drive us back home.”

“Are you okay to drive?”

Dean gave him a tired little smirk. “Your concern is touching, but I’m fine. Just peachy. That dip in the pool got me all sobered up.” Sam blushed in embarrassment, just a slight warmth at his cheeks.

“Yeah, okay,” he muttered. Dean grabbed his still-dripping t-shirt and handed it to Sam, who pulled it over his head with a grimace. They headed toward the comforting familiarity of the Impala.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> Wow I bet people would be pretty disappointed if I really did end it there.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lord, can you hear me now?_   
> _Lord, can you hear me now?_   
> _Or am I lost?_

The silence in the car closed in around Sam, as stifling as the water had been, but Dean seemed unfazed. He tapped out a broken rhythm on the steering wheel and hummed along with the same damn Led Zeppelin tape he always played as Sam shivered in the passenger seat.

“Cold?” Dean asked, startling Sam. It was the first thing he’d said since they left the bathroom. He hadn’t even said goodbye to the girl he’d been fooling around with. Sam just nodded dumbly. 

“Well maybe next time don’t throw yourself into the damn swimming pool,” he admonished, but he clicked off the A/C all the same.

“Right,” Sam grumbled. They pulled up in front of the dingy little white house they called home these days and Dean turned into the alley that ran alongside it. Sam’s heart stuttered with hope. Maybe Dean wouldn’t say anything else. Maybe he could ignore that it happened at all, push it away like a good Winchester. Sam knew that he wouldn’t be able to forget the feeling of Dean’s skin under his damp fingertips, the way he took a little surprised breath when Sam kissed him. But he could pretend. He was good at pretending. They eased to a stop and Sam immediately tried to escape.

“Whoa, hey,” Dean snapped, reaching across Sam’s lap to yank the door closed again. “You can’t just run off. You need to--” He pursed his lips, discomfort clear in his features. “We need to... _talk_ about this.” He spat the word out through gritted teeth, as though it left something bitter on his tongue. At least Dean was as uncomfortable as he was.

“Talk about what?” Sam asked, trying to sound casual and disinterested. It came out shaky and small. Dean narrowed his eyes at him.

“You know what.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well neither do I, but it’s happening either way.” Dean sounded stern and Sam bit down on his lip, feeling the chill in his body slowly being replaced by a humiliating blush.

“I’m sorry,” Sam mumbled. “I’m just... I’m really, really sorry.” The tension seemed to melt off of Dean’s shoulders and he leaned forward to grasp the crook of Sam’s elbow.

“Hey, I said it was okay, right?” His voice sounded almost tender.

“No, you said it was _going_ to be okay.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Dean sighed. “Look, you know why--You know why you can’t... you can’t do stuff like that, right?”

“What, stuff like kiss you?” Sam snapped. He was pushing, and he knew it. He was just desperate to see some kind of reaction from Dean, some validation for the thoughts that made his stomach churn and tremble. He searched his brother’s face for the disgust and embarrassment that he knew would be there. _Should_ be there. But there was nothing. His features were as calm and sure as ever, showing nothing but concern.

“Yeah, stuff like kiss me.” Dean said it so damn easily, like it was normal, like he didn’t care.

“I’m not an idiot!” Sam roared. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t know how fucked up this is, Dean? You think I don’t know how fucked up _I_ am?” He wanted to be strong, but his voice cracked and he crumpled against Dean’s chest. “I’m so messed up, Dean. There’s something wrong with me. I hate it. I hate it. I couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t you dare say that to me, Sammy,” Dean demanded, wrapping him in a tight hug without a hint of hesitation. “There is nothing wrong with you, you hear me? _Nothing_.”

Sam laughed wetly. “I think there are a few people who would disagree with you there,” he retorted.

“Well they can go screw themselves,” Dean said coolly. “I say there’s nothing wrong with you, so there’s nothing wrong with you.” His confidence was so absolute, Sam couldn’t help but laugh again as he pulled away and started rubbing at his eyes.

“Thanks, Dean.” They sat there for a few moments while Sam tried to compose himself, calming his ragged, hiccuping breaths and scrubbing the tears out of his eyes and cheeks. Dean was staring at some unknown point in the rearview mirror. Sam reached for the door again, but Dean grabbed his wrist quicker than he thought possible. He gave Sam a funny sort of look that he didn’t recognize.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” he asked, as though it was the most natural conversation in the world. Sam’s face felt warm again and he squirmed uncomfortably.

“Well, uh, no,” he acknowledged. “I mean, I guess now I have.” He looked down and mumbled, more to himself than to Dean. “That was my first kiss.” Dean sighed again and shook his head, as though he was disappointed in him. Then he threw back his head and really laughed -- loudly, freely.

“I was your first kiss.” Dean was smirking and Sam shoved him roughly in the shoulder.

“Shut up!”

“No way, I’m keeping this one forever.” 

There was something in Dean’s voice then, in the way that it was soft and heated. The way that he was still holding onto Sam’ wrist, but only lightly, like he giving him an exit. His mischievous half-grin slipped slowly into something more sobering; a small crease formed between his brows as he squinted at Sam, like he was assessing him. His thumb pressed a small circle into Sam’s arm.

“That was a pretty shit excuse for a first kiss,” Dean hummed, eyes bright and dangerous.

“Yeah, well--” Whatever Sam was going to say got stuck in his throat when Dean cupped his chin in his other hand, without a hint of doubt, or the revulsion that Sam so desperately feared. Dean barely brushed his bottom lip with his thumb. Sam’s heart started hammering in his chest and he waited for his brother to laugh in his face, to tease him, to somehow indicate that it wasn’t real. But he didn’t. And yeah, Sam could definitely see why it was so easy for him to get girls, because Dean was staring at him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world and it made Sam’s entire body feel warm and liquid.

“Close your eyes,” Dean murmured. Sam complied almost instantly, though he was sad to no longer see Dean’s face. He felt Dean’s breath against his jaw, impossibly warm and alive, before he felt his lips. They were wetter than before, and incredibly soft, and they slid against his so perfectly that he couldn’t help the quiet, breathy sound of surprise in his throat. Dean apparently thought this was funny, because he chuckled against Sam’s mouth and Sam could feel his lips move into a grin, the cool hardness of teeth bared. Dean’s lips dusted across his cheek to land at the delicate intersection of his jaw and his earlobe.

“You’re supposed to kiss me back,” he hinted, voice a touch deeper, but still light with humor. Sam nodded so eagerly that Dean laughed again, and Sam felt the sound slip down his spine and swirl around in his belly. He didn’t know how it was happening, or why, but was the greatest thing he’d ever felt, so he forced himself not to question it.

Dean’s hand moved from his chin to palm the back of his neck, pulling him forward gently as calloused fingertips threaded through the soft, fine hair at the nape of his neck. He kissed him again and Sam felt himself sort of fold against him, leaning into his touch. He also felt slightly panicky, unsure of what to do with his hands or his mouth.

“I said, eyes closed,” Dean chided. Sam squeezed his eyes shut -- he hadn’t even realized they were open again. Dean’s short nails scraped lightly against his scalp and suddenly Sam understood what ‘kissing back’ meant. He shoved his mouth harder against Dean’s, uncertain and a touch desperate. It felt like they were exchanging breath. He moved his head to the side and kissed the corner of Dean’s lips, the dip of his Cupid’s bow, tried to breathe him in.

The worry and doubt tangled up in his shoulders and back loosened and Sam felt Dean take one of his hands -- the one that was gripping the seat so tightly Sam could barely feel it -- and reposition it on his side, against the bones and muscle of his ribcage. Sam immediately dug his fingers into the still-damp material of his shirt, feeling the slight give of the flesh underneath. This must have been a good thing to do because Dean made some muffled sound that might have been his name and grabbed his shoulder tightly. Sudden bravery rushed through Sam’s veins and he used the tip of his tongue to draw a thin, cautious line across Dean’s bottom lip.

Dean fucking growled -- a sound that Sam had never heard his brother make, not like this -- and hauled him closer. Sam absently wondered if this was just another one of those awkward dreams, the ones that left him aroused and ashamed when he awoke, but the cool metal of the gear shift was now digging almost painfully into his knee and Dean’s tongue shoved past his lips and he didn’t really care. The hand that wasn’t tangled up in Dean’s shirt drifted shakily up his brother’s leg to rest on his thigh. 

A steady, subtle tremor was running through Sam’s body as Dean’s tongue slid against his own, less careful now, and the hand on his shoulder drifted lazily across his collarbone and down the center of his chest. Dean’s fingertips splayed against his stomach and the skin there jumped unconsciously under the touch. Sam’s couldn’t help but groan and Dean’s body stilled under his hands, except for the hand on his stomach, which suddenly fisted in his shirt so tightly that he worried it might rip through the fabric. Dean pulled away just enough so that their lips weren’t touching and Sam heedlessly tried to follow, but Dean held him back firmly.

“All right, Sammy,” he breathed, the sound intoxicating and tangible against Sam’s skin. “That’s enough.” 

Sam wanted to say no, that it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, until he had touched and tasted every inch of Dean, and even then he would still want more. Instead, he forced himself to breathe, then jerkily nodded twice. Sam let his hands fall to his sides as Dean’s fingers extricated themselves from his hair, though the one remained stubbornly fisted in his shirt.

“You okay?” Dean asked. When Sam opened his eyes, he saw that Dean actually looked concerned. Sam wanted to laugh, to ask if he was crazy, but he could only nod a second time.

“Yeah,” he finally got out, voice sounding strange in his own ears. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m... good. Good. Really good.” The last part he blurted out thoughtlessly and Dean chuckled.

“Good,” he said warmly. His eyes still held that darkness, the color that Sam couldn’t fully translate, but his hand slowly unclenched from his shirt. A moment of heavy silence passed between them and Sam wasn’t sure what to do. Dean’s expression slowly turned thoughtful. He glanced toward the house.

“You’d better go inside,” he muttered.

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna take a drive.” Upon seeing Sam’s face, he gave an encouraging smile. “Just around the block.”

“Right.” Sam’s grumbling sounded unconvinced.

“Listen.” Dean’s voice was insistent. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but... Look, you can’t say anything about this. To _anybody_.” Sam rolled his eyes, an unfamiliar feeling of indulgent contentment still washing over him.

“I mean it,” Dean continued. “I’m serious. You don’t say anything to your friends. You don’t say anything to Dad.”

“I would never--”

“You promise me that, Sammy!”

Sam swallowed. “Okay. Promise.”

“And...” Dean trailed off, voice tight, like it was something he didn’t want to say. “And look, this is a one-time thing. You gotta -- you go find some girls to practice that with, all right?” He forced a grin. It didn’t reach his eyes. Sam’s throat constricted and a chill threatened to chase out the glow pulsing throughout his body. He forced himself to nod. He wasn’t going to let anything mar this. It was too good, too prized to ruin with the reality of their situation. He would keep this memory, hide it away like something fragile and precious.

“Right,” he croaked, after what felt like ages. He opened up the passenger door and this time Dean didn’t try to stop him. He eased around the Impala, running one finger absently along the cool lines of the vehicle while Dean watched him with sharp eyes. Sam stopped to stand in front of the open driver’s side window, arms crossed.

“Just a drive around the block?” he repeated.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Promise?”

Dean’s lips quirked.

“Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That was a roller coaster. Thanks to everyone for reading my very first Wincest fic (and my first completed SPN fic... don't look at me like that). I really appreciate all of your kudos and comments! 
> 
> I know it's not exactly the happiest of endings, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. :)
> 
> Thanks again!


End file.
